Joe Wilson and His Mates

by Henry Lawson

  II. 'Past Carin''.

  Next morning things looked a lot brighter. Things always look brighterin the morning--more so in the Australian Bush, I should think, than inmost other places. It is when the sun goes down on the dark bed of thelonely Bush, and the sunset flashes like a sea of fire and then fades,and then glows out again, like a bank of coals, and then burns away toashes--it is then that old things come home to one. And strange, new-oldthings too, that haunt and depress you terribly, and that you can'tunderstand. I often think how, at sunset, the past must come home tonew-chum blacksheep, sent out to Australia and drifted into the Bush.I used to think that they couldn't have much brains, or the lonelinesswould drive them mad.

  I'd decided to let James take the team for a trip or two. He could drivealright; he was a better business man, and no doubt would manage betterthan me--as long as the novelty lasted; and I'd stay at home for aweek or so, till Mary got used to the place, or I could get a girl fromsomewhere to come and stay with her. The first weeks or few months ofloneliness are the worst, as a rule, I believe, as they say the firstweeks in jail are--I was never there. I know it's so with tramping orhard graft*: the first day or two are twice as hard as any of the rest.But, for my part, I could never get used to loneliness and dulness; thelast days used to be the worst with me: then I'd have to make a move, ordrink. When you've been too much and too long alone in a lonely place,you begin to do queer things and think queer thoughts--provided you haveany imagination at all. You'll sometimes sit of an evening and watch thelonely track, by the hour, for a horseman or a cart or some one that'snever likely to come that way--some one, or a stranger, that you can'tand don't really expect to see. I think that most men who have beenalone in the Bush for any length of time--and married couples too--aremore or less mad. With married couples it is generally the husband whois painfully shy and awkward when strangers come. The woman seems tostand the loneliness better, and can hold her own with strangers, as arule. It's only afterwards, and looking back, that you see how queer yougot. Shepherds and boundary-riders, who are alone for months, MUST havetheir periodical spree, at the nearest shanty, else they'd go ravingmad. Drink is the only break in the awful monotony, and the yearly orhalf-yearly spree is the only thing they've got to look forward to: itkeeps their minds fixed on something definite ahead.

  * 'Graft', work. The term is now applied, in Australia, to all sorts of work, from bullock-driving to writing poetry.

  But Mary kept her head pretty well through the first months ofloneliness. WEEKS, rather, I should say, for it wasn't as bad as itmight have been farther up-country: there was generally some one cameof a Sunday afternoon--a spring-cart with a couple of women, or maybea family,--or a lanky shy Bush native or two on lanky shy horses. Ona quiet Sunday, after I'd brought Jim home, Mary would dress him andherself--just the same as if we were in town--and make me get up on oneend and put on a collar and take her and Jim for a walk along the creek.She said she wanted to keep me civilised. She tried to make a gentlemanof me for years, but gave it up gradually.

  Well. It was the first morning on the creek: I was greasing thewaggon-wheels, and James out after the horse, and Mary hanging outclothes, in an old print dress and a big ugly white hood, when I heardher being hailed as 'Hi, missus!' from the front slip-rails.

  It was a boy on horseback. He was a light-haired, very much freckled boyof fourteen or fifteen, with a small head, but with limbs, especiallyhis bare sun-blotched shanks, that might have belonged to a grownman. He had a good face and frank grey eyes. An old, nearly blackcabbage-tree hat rested on the butts of his ears, turning them out atright angles from his head, and rather dirty sprouts they were. He worea dirty torn Crimean shirt; and a pair of man's moleskin trousers rolledup above the knees, with the wide waistband gathered under a greenhidebelt. I noticed, later on, that, even when he wore trousers short enoughfor him, he always rolled 'em up above the knees when on horseback, forsome reason of his own: to suggest leggings, perhaps, for he had themrolled up in all weathers, and he wouldn't have bothered to save themfrom the sweat of the horse, even if that horse ever sweated.

  He was seated astride a three-bushel bag thrown across the ridge-pole ofa big grey horse, with a coffin-shaped head, and built astern somethingafter the style of a roughly put up hip-roofed box-bark humpy.* Hiscolour was like old box-bark, too, a dirty bluish-grey; and, one time,when I saw his rump looming out of the scrub, I really thought it wassome old shepherd's hut that I hadn't noticed there before. When hecantered it was like the humpy starting off on its corner-posts.

  * 'Humpy', a rough hut.

  'Are you Mrs Wilson?' asked the boy.

  'Yes,' said Mary.

  'Well, mother told me to ride acrost and see if you wanted anythink. Wekilled lars' night, and I've fetched a piece er cow.'

  'Piece of WHAT?' asked Mary.

  He grinned, and handed a sugar-bag across the rail with something heavyin the bottom of it, that nearly jerked Mary's arm out when she tookit. It was a piece of beef, that looked as if it had been cut off with awood-axe, but it was fresh and clean.

  'Oh, I'm so glad!' cried Mary. She was always impulsive, save to mesometimes. 'I was just wondering where we were going to get any freshmeat. How kind of your mother! Tell her I'm very much obliged to herindeed.' And she felt behind her for a poor little purse she had. 'Andnow--how much did your mother say it would be?'

  The boy blinked at her, and scratched his head.

  'How much will it be,' he repeated, puzzled. 'Oh--how much does it weighI-s'pose-yer-mean. Well, it ain't been weighed at all--we ain't got noscales. A butcher does all that sort of think. We just kills it, andcooks it, and eats it--and goes by guess. What won't keep we salts downin the cask. I reckon it weighs about a ton by the weight of it if yerwanter know. Mother thought that if she sent any more it would go badbefore you could scoff it. I can't see----'

  'Yes, yes,' said Mary, getting confused. 'But what I want to know is,how do you manage when you sell it?'

  He glared at her, and scratched his head. 'Sell it? Why, we only goeshalves in a steer with some one, or sells steers to the butcher--ormaybe some meat to a party of fencers or surveyors, or tank-sinkers, orthem sorter people----'

  'Yes, yes; but what I want to know is, how much am I to send your motherfor this?'

  'How much what?'

  'Money, of course, you stupid boy,' said Mary. 'You seem a very stupidboy.'

  Then he saw what she was driving at. He began to fling his heelsconvulsively against the sides of his horse, jerking his body backwardand forward at the same time, as if to wind up and start some clockworkmachinery inside the horse, that made it go, and seemed to needrepairing or oiling.

  'We ain't that sorter people, missus,' he said. 'We don't sell meatto new people that come to settle here.' Then, jerking his thumbcontemptuously towards the ridges, 'Go over ter Wall's if yer wanter buymeat; they sell meat ter strangers.' (Wall was the big squatter over theridges.)

  'Oh!' said Mary, 'I'm SO sorry. Thank your mother for me. She IS kind.'

  'Oh, that's nothink. She said to tell yer she'll be up as soon as shecan. She'd have come up yisterday evening--she thought yer'd feel lonelycomin' new to a place like this--but she couldn't git up.'

  The machinery inside the old horse showed signs of starting. Youalmost heard the wooden joints CREAK as he lurched forward, like an oldpropped-up humpy when the rotting props give way; but at the sound ofMary's voice he settled back on his foundations again. It must have beena very poor selection that couldn't afford a better spare horse thanthat.

  'Reach me that lump er wood, will yer, missus?' said the boy, and hepointed to one of my 'spreads' (for the team-chains) that lay inside thefence. 'I'll fling it back agin over the fence when I git this ole cowstarted.'

  'But wait a minute--I've forgotten your mother's name,' said Mary.

  He grabbed at his thatch impatiently. 'Me mother--oh!--the old woman'sname's Mrs Spicer. (Git up, karnt yer!)' He twisted himself round, andbrought
the stretcher down on one of the horse's 'points' (and he hadmany) with a crack that must have jarred his wrist.

  'Do you go to school?' asked Mary. There was a three-days-a-week schoolover the ridges at Wall's station.

  'No!' he jerked out, keeping his legs going. 'Me--why I'm going on furfifteen. The last teacher at Wall's finished me. I'm going to Queenslandnext month drovin'.' (Queensland border was over three hundred milesaway.)

  'Finished you? How?' asked Mary.

  'Me edgercation, of course! How do yer expect me to start this horsewhen yer keep talkin'?'

  He split the 'spread' over the horse's point, threw the pieces over thefence, and was off, his elbows and legs flinging wildly, and the oldsaw-stool lumbering along the road like an old working bullock trying acanter. That horse wasn't a trotter.

  And next month he DID start for Queensland. He was a younger son and asurplus boy on a wretched, poverty-stricken selection; and as there was'northin' doin'' in the district, his father (in a burst of fatherlykindness, I suppose) made him a present of the old horse and a newpair of Blucher boots, and I gave him an old saddle and a coat, and hestarted for the Never-Never Country.

  And I'll bet he got there. But I'm doubtful if the old horse did.

  Mary gave the boy five shillings, and I don't think he had anything moreexcept a clean shirt and an extra pair of white cotton socks.

  'Spicer's farm' was a big bark humpy on a patchy clearing in the nativeapple-tree scrub. The clearing was fenced in by a light 'dog-legged'fence (a fence of sapling poles resting on forks and X-shaped uprights),and the dusty ground round the house was almost entirely covered withcattle-dung. There was no attempt at cultivation when I came to live onthe creek; but there were old furrow-marks amongst the stumps of anothershapeless patch in the scrub near the hut. There was a wretched saplingcow-yard and calf-pen, and a cow-bail with one sheet of bark over it forshelter. There was no dairy to be seen, and I suppose the milk was setin one of the two skillion rooms, or lean-to's behind the hut,--theother was 'the boys' bedroom'. The Spicers kept a few cows and steers,and had thirty or forty sheep. Mrs Spicer used to drive down the creekonce a-week, in her rickety old spring-cart, to Cobborah, with butterand eggs. The hut was nearly as bare inside as it was out--just a frameof 'round-timber' (sapling poles) covered with bark. The furniture waspermanent (unless you rooted it up), like in our kitchen: a rough slabtable on stakes driven into the ground, and seats made the sameway. Mary told me afterwards that the beds in the bag-and-barkpartitioned-off room ('mother's bedroom') were simply poles laid sideby side on cross-pieces supported by stakes driven into the ground, withstraw mattresses and some worn-out bed-clothes. Mrs Spicer had an oldpatchwork quilt, in rags, and the remains of a white one, and Mary saidit was pitiful to see how these things would be spread over the beds--tohide them as much as possible--when she went down there. A packing-case,with something like an old print skirt draped round it, and a crackedlooking-glass (without a frame) on top, was the dressing-table.There were a couple of gin-cases for a wardrobe. The boys' beds werethree-bushel bags stretched between poles fastened to uprights. Thefloor was the original surface, tramped hard, worn uneven with muchsweeping, and with puddles in rainy weather where the roof leaked. MrsSpicer used to stand old tins, dishes, and buckets under as many ofthe leaks as she could. The saucepans, kettles, and boilers were oldkerosene-tins and billies. They used kerosene-tins, too, cut longways inhalves, for setting the milk in. The plates and cups were of tin;there were two or three cups without saucers, and a crockery plate ortwo--also two mugs, cracked and without handles, one with 'For a GoodBoy' and the other with 'For a Good Girl' on it; but all these were kepton the mantel-shelf for ornament and for company. They were the onlyornaments in the house, save a little wooden clock that hadn't gone foryears. Mrs Spicer had a superstition that she had 'some things packedaway from the children.'

  The pictures were cut from old copies of the 'Illustrated Sydney News'and pasted on to the bark. I remember this, because I remembered, longago, the Spencers, who were our neighbours when I was a boy, had thewalls of their bedroom covered with illustrations of the American CivilWar, cut from illustrated London papers, and I used to 'sneak' into'mother's bedroom' with Fred Spencer whenever we got the chance, andgloat over the prints. I gave him a blade of a pocket-knife once, fortaking me in there.

  I saw very little of Spicer. He was a big, dark, dark-haired andwhiskered man. I had an idea that he wasn't a selector at all, only a'dummy' for the squatter of the Cobborah run. You see, selectors wereallowed to take up land on runs, or pastoral leases. The squatterskept them off as much as possible, by all manner of dodges and paltrypersecution. The squatter would get as much freehold as he could afford,'select' as much land as the law allowed one man to take up, and thenemploy dummies (dummy selectors) to take up bits of land that he fanciedabout his run, and hold them for him.

  Spicer seemed gloomy and unsociable. He was seldom at home. He wasgenerally supposed to be away shearin', or fencin', or workin' onsomebody's station. It turned out that the last six months he was awayit was on the evidence of a cask of beef and a hide with the brand cutout, found in his camp on a fencing contract up-country, and which heand his mates couldn't account for satisfactorily, while the squattercould. Then the family lived mostly on bread and honey, or bread andtreacle, or bread and dripping, and tea. Every ounce of butter and everyegg was needed for the market, to keep them in flour, tea, and sugar.Mary found that out, but couldn't help them much--except by 'stuffing'the children with bread and meat or bread and jam whenever they came upto our place--for Mrs Spicer was proud with the pride that lies down inthe end and turns its face to the wall and dies.

  Once, when Mary asked Annie, the eldest girl at home, if she washungry, she denied it--but she looked it. A ragged mite she had with herexplained things. The little fellow said--

  'Mother told Annie not to say we was hungry if yer asked; but if yergive us anythink to eat, we was to take it an' say thenk yer, MrsWilson.'

  'I wouldn't 'a' told yer a lie; but I thought Jimmy would split on me,Mrs Wilson,' said Annie. 'Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.'

  She was not a big woman. She was gaunt and flat-chested, and her facewas 'burnt to a brick', as they say out there. She had brown eyes,nearly red, and a little wild-looking at times, and a sharp face--groundsharp by hardship--the cheeks drawn in. She had an expressionlike--well, like a woman who had been very curious and suspicious at onetime, and wanted to know everybody's business and hear everything, andhad lost all her curiosity, without losing the expression or the quicksuspicious movements of the head. I don't suppose you understand. Ican't explain it any other way. She was not more than forty.

  I remember the first morning I saw her. I was going up the creek to lookat the selection for the first time, and called at the hut to see if shehad a bit of fresh mutton, as I had none and was sick of 'corned beef'.

  'Yes--of--course,' she said, in a sharp nasty tone, as if to say, 'Isthere anything more you want while the shop's open?' I'd met just thesame sort of woman years before while I was carrying swag between theshearing-sheds in the awful scrubs out west of the Darling river, so Ididn't turn on my heels and walk away. I waited for her to speak again.

  'Come--inside,' she said, 'and sit down. I see you've got the waggonoutside. I s'pose your name's Wilson, ain't it? You're thinkin' abouttakin' on Harry Marshfield's selection up the creek, so I heard. Waittill I fry you a chop and boil the billy.'

  Her voice sounded, more than anything else, like a voice coming out ofa phonograph--I heard one in Sydney the other day--and not like a voicecoming out of her. But sometimes when she got outside her everydaylife on this selection she spoke in a sort of--in a sort of lostgroping-in-the-dark kind of voice.

  She didn't talk much this time--just spoke in a mechanical way of thedrought, and the hard times, 'an' butter 'n' eggs bein' down, an' herhusban' an' eldest son bein' away, an' that makin' it so hard for her.'

  I don't know how many children she had. I never go
t a chance to countthem, for they were nearly all small, and shy as piccaninnies, and usedto run and hide when anybody came. They were mostly nearly as black aspiccaninnies too. She must have averaged a baby a-year for years--andGod only knows how she got over her confinements! Once, they said, sheonly had a black gin with her. She had an elder boy and girl, but sheseldom spoke of them. The girl, 'Liza', was 'in service in Sydney.' I'mafraid I knew what that meant. The elder son was 'away'. He had been abit of a favourite round there, it seemed.

  Some one might ask her, 'How's your son Jack, Mrs Spicer?' or, 'Heard ofJack lately? and where is he now?'

  'Oh, he's somewheres up country,' she'd say in the 'groping' voice, or'He's drovin' in Queenslan',' or 'Shearin' on the Darlin' the last timeI heerd from him.' 'We ain't had a line from him since--les' see--sinceChris'mas 'fore last.'

  And she'd turn her haggard eyes in a helpless, hopeless sort of waytowards the west--towards 'up-country' and 'Out-Back'.*

  * 'Out-Back' is always west of the Bushman, no matter how far out he be.

  The eldest girl at home was nine or ten, with a little old face andlines across her forehead: she had an older expression than her mother.Tommy went to Queensland, as I told you. The eldest son at home, Bill(older than Tommy), was 'a bit wild.'

  I've passed the place in smothering hot mornings in December, when thedroppings about the cow-yard had crumpled to dust that rose in thewarm, sickly, sunrise wind, and seen that woman at work in the cow-yard,'bailing up' and leg-roping cows, milking, or hauling at a rope roundthe neck of a half-grown calf that was too strong for her (and she wastough as fencing-wire), or humping great buckets of sour milk to thepigs or the 'poddies' (hand-fed calves) in the pen. I'd get off thehorse and give her a hand sometimes with a young steer, or a cranky oldcow that wouldn't 'bail-up' and threatened her with her horns. She'dsay--

  'Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. Do yer think we're ever goin' to have any rain?'

  I've ridden past the place on bitter black rainy mornings in June orJuly, and seen her trudging about the yard--that was ankle-deep in blackliquid filth--with an old pair of Blucher boots on, and an old coat ofher husband's, or maybe a three-bushel bag over her shoulders. I've seenher climbing on the roof by means of the water-cask at the corner, andtrying to stop a leak by shoving a piece of tin in under the bark. Andwhen I'd fixed the leak--

  'Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. This drop of rain's a blessin'! Come in and havea dry at the fire and I'll make yer a cup of tea.' And, if I was in ahurry, 'Come in, man alive! Come in! and dry yerself a bit till the rainholds up. Yer can't go home like this! Yer'll git yer death o' cold.'

  I've even seen her, in the terrible drought, climbing she-oaks andapple-trees by a makeshift ladder, and awkwardly lopping off boughs tofeed the starving cattle.

  'Jist tryin' ter keep the milkers alive till the rain comes.'

  They said that when the pleuro-pneumonia was in the district and amongsther cattle she bled and physicked them herself, and fed those that weredown with slices of half-ripe pumpkins (from a crop that had failed).

  'An', one day,' she told Mary, 'there was a big barren heifer (that wecalled Queen Elizabeth) that was down with the ploorer. She'd been downfor four days and hadn't moved, when one mornin' I dumped some wheatenchaff--we had a few bags that Spicer brought home--I dumped it in frontof her nose, an'--would yer b'lieve me, Mrs Wilson?--she stumbled onterher feet an' chased me all the way to the house! I had to pick up meskirts an' run! Wasn't it redic'lus?'

  They had a sense of the ridiculous, most of those poor sun-driedBushwomen. I fancy that that helped save them from madness.

  'We lost nearly all our milkers,' she told Mary. 'I remember one dayTommy came running to the house and screamed: 'Marther! [mother] there'sanother milker down with the ploorer!' Jist as if it was great news.Well, Mrs Wilson, I was dead-beat, an' I giv' in. I jist sat downto have a good cry, and felt for my han'kerchief--it WAS a rag of ahan'kerchief, full of holes (all me others was in the wash). Withoutseein' what I was doin' I put me finger through one hole in thehan'kerchief an' me thumb through the other, and poked me fingers intome eyes, instead of wipin' them. Then I had to laugh.'

  There's a story that once, when the Bush, or rather grass, fires wereout all along the creek on Spicer's side, Wall's station hands were upabove our place, trying to keep the fire back from the boundary, andtowards evening one of the men happened to think of the Spicers: theysaw smoke down that way. Spicer was away from home, and they had a smallcrop of wheat, nearly ripe, on the selection.

  'My God! that poor devil of a woman will be burnt out, if she ain'talready!' shouted young Billy Wall. 'Come along, three or four of youchaps'--(it was shearing-time, and there were plenty of men on thestation).

  They raced down the creek to Spicer's, and were just in time to save thewheat. She had her sleeves tucked up, and was beating out the burninggrass with a bough. She'd been at it for an hour, and was as black as agin, they said. She only said when they'd turned the fire: 'Thenk yer!Wait an' I'll make some tea.'

  *****

  After tea the first Sunday she came to see us, Mary asked--

  'Don't you feel lonely, Mrs Spicer, when your husband goes away?'

  'Well--no, Mrs Wilson,' she said in the groping sort of voice. 'I uster,once. I remember, when we lived on the Cudgeegong river--we lived ina brick house then--the first time Spicer had to go away from home Inearly fretted my eyes out. And he was only goin' shearin' for a month.I muster bin a fool; but then we were only jist married a little while.He's been away drovin' in Queenslan' as long as eighteen months at atime since then. But' (her voice seemed to grope in the dark morethan ever) 'I don't mind,--I somehow seem to have got past carin'.Besides--besides, Spicer was a very different man then to what he isnow. He's got so moody and gloomy at home, he hardly ever speaks.'

  Mary sat silent for a minute thinking. Then Mrs Spicer roused herself--

  'Oh, I don't know what I'm talkin' about! You mustn't take any notice ofme, Mrs Wilson,--I don't often go on like this. I do believe I'm gittin'a bit ratty at times. It must be the heat and the dulness.'

  But once or twice afterwards she referred to a time 'when Spicer was adifferent man to what he was now.'

  I walked home with her a piece along the creek. She said nothing fora long time, and seemed to be thinking in a puzzled way. Then she saidsuddenly--

  'What-did-you-bring-her-here-for? She's only a girl.'

  'I beg pardon, Mrs Spicer.'

  'Oh, I don't know what I'm talkin' about! I b'lieve I'm gittin' ratty.You mustn't take any notice of me, Mr Wilson.'

  She wasn't much company for Mary; and often, when she had a child withher, she'd start taking notice of the baby while Mary was talking, whichused to exasperate Mary. But poor Mrs Spicer couldn't help it, and sheseemed to hear all the same.

  Her great trouble was that she 'couldn't git no reg'lar schoolin' forthe children.'

  'I learns 'em at home as much as I can. But I don't git a minute tocall me own; an' I'm ginerally that dead-beat at night that I'm fit fornothink.'

  Mary had some of the children up now and then later on, and taught thema little. When she first offered to do so, Mrs Spicer laid hold of thehandiest youngster and said--

  'There--do you hear that? Mrs Wilson is goin' to teach yer, an'it's more than yer deserve!' (the youngster had been 'cryin'' oversomething). 'Now, go up an' say "Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson." And if yerain't good, and don't do as she tells yer, I'll break every bone in yeryoung body!'

  The poor little devil stammered something, and escaped.

  The children were sent by turns over to Wall's to Sunday-school. WhenTommy was at home he had a new pair of elastic-side boots, and there wasno end of rows about them in the family--for the mother made him lendthem to his sister Annie, to go to Sunday-school in, in her turn. Therewere only about three pairs of anyway decent boots in the family, andthese were saved for great occasions. The children were always as cleanand tidy as possible when they came to our place.
/>   And I think the saddest and most pathetic sight on the face of God'searth is the children of very poor people made to appear well: thebroken worn-out boots polished or greased, the blackened (inked) piecesof string for laces; the clean patched pinafores over the wretchedthreadbare frocks. Behind the little row of children hand-in-hand--andno matter where they are--I always see the worn face of the mother.

  Towards the end of the first year on the selection our little girl came.I'd sent Mary to Gulgong for four months that time, and when she cameback with the baby Mrs Spicer used to come up pretty often. She came upseveral times when Mary was ill, to lend a hand. She wouldn't sit downand condole with Mary, or waste her time asking questions, or talkingabout the time when she was ill herself. She'd take off her hat--ashapeless little lump of black straw she wore for visiting--giveher hair a quick brush back with the palms of her hands, roll up hersleeves, and set to work to 'tidy up'. She seemed to take most pleasurein sorting out our children's clothes, and dressing them. Perhaps sheused to dress her own like that in the days when Spicer was a differentman from what he was now. She seemed interested in the fashion-platesof some women's journals we had, and used to study them with an interestthat puzzled me, for she was not likely to go in for fashion. She nevertalked of her early girlhood; but Mary, from some things she noticed,was inclined to think that Mrs Spicer had been fairly well brought up.For instance, Dr Balanfantie, from Cudgeegong, came out to see Wall'swife, and drove up the creek to our place on his way back to see howMary and the baby were getting on. Mary got out some crockery and sometable-napkins that she had packed away for occasions like this; andshe said that the way Mrs Spicer handled the things, and helped set thetable (though she did it in a mechanical sort of way), convinced herthat she had been used to table-napkins at one time in her life.

  Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer would saysuddenly--

  'Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.'

  'Why, Mrs Spicer?'

  'Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I git the dismalsafterwards.'

  'Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?'

  'Oh,-I-don't-know-what-I'm-talkin'-about. You mustn't take any noticeof me.' And she'd put on her hat, kiss the children--and Mary too,sometimes, as if she mistook her for a child--and go.

  Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand.

  Once, when Mrs Spicer was sick, Mary went down to her, and down againnext day. As she was coming away the second time, Mrs Spicer said--

  'I wish you wouldn't come down any more till I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson.The children can do for me.'

  'Why, Mrs Spicer?'

  'Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.'

  We were the aristocrats of Lahey's Creek. Whenever we drove down onSunday afternoon to see Mrs Spicer, and as soon as we got near enoughfor them to hear the rattle of the cart, we'd see the children runningto the house as fast as they could split, and hear them screaming--

  'Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.'

  And we'd see her bustle round, and two or three fowls fly out thefront door, and she'd lay hold of a broom (made of a bound bunch of'broom-stuff'--coarse reedy grass or bush from the ridges--with a stickstuck in it) and flick out the floor, with a flick or two round in frontof the door perhaps. The floor nearly always needed at least one flickof the broom on account of the fowls. Or she'd catch a youngster andscrub his face with a wet end of a cloudy towel, or twist the towelround her finger and dig out his ears--as if she was anxious to have himhear every word that was going to be said.

  No matter what state the house would be in she'd always say, 'I was jistexpectin' yer, Mrs Wilson.' And she was original in that, anyway.

  She had an old patched and darned white table-cloth that she used tospread on the table when we were there, as a matter of course ('Theothers is in the wash, so you must excuse this, Mrs Wilson'), but I sawby the eyes of the children that the cloth was rather a wonderful thingto them. 'I must really git some more knives an' forks next time I'm inCobborah,' she'd say. 'The children break an' lose 'em till I'm ashamedto ask Christians ter sit down ter the table.'

  She had many Bush yarns, some of them very funny, some of them ratherghastly, but all interesting, and with a grim sort of humour about them.But the effect was often spoilt by her screaming at the children to'Drive out them fowls, karnt yer,' or 'Take yer maulies [hands] outerthe sugar,' or 'Don't touch Mrs Wilson's baby with them dirty maulies,'or 'Don't stand starin' at Mrs Wilson with yer mouth an' ears in thatvulgar way.'

  Poor woman! she seemed everlastingly nagging at the children. It wasa habit, but they didn't seem to mind. Most Bushwomen get the nagginghabit. I remember one, who had the prettiest, dearest, sweetest, mostwilling, and affectionate little girl I think I ever saw, and she naggedthat child from daylight till dark--and after it. Taking it all round,I think that the nagging habit in a mother is often worse on ordinarychildren, and more deadly on sensitive youngsters, than the drinkinghabit in a father.

  One of the yarns Mrs Spicer told us was about a squatter she knew whoused to go wrong in his head every now and again, and try to commitsuicide. Once, when the station-hand, who was watching him, had his eyeoff him for a minute, he hanged himself to a beam in the stable. Themen ran in and found him hanging and kicking. 'They let him hang fora while,' said Mrs Spicer, 'till he went black in the face and stoppedkicking. Then they cut him down and threw a bucket of water over him.'

  'Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?' asked Mary.

  'To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him oftryin' to hang himself again.'

  'Well, that's the coolest thing I ever heard of,' said Mary.

  'That's jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson,' said Mrs Spicer.

  'One morning,' said Mrs Spicer, 'Spicer had gone off on his horsesomewhere, and I was alone with the children, when a man came to thedoor and said--

  '"For God's sake, woman, give me a drink!"

  'Lord only knows where he came from! He was dressed like a new chum--hisclothes was good, but he looked as if he'd been sleepin' in them in theBush for a month. He was very shaky. I had some coffee that mornin',so I gave him some in a pint pot; he drank it, and then he stood on hishead till he tumbled over, and then he stood up on his feet and said,"Thenk yer, mum."

  'I was so surprised that I didn't know what to say, so I jist said,"Would you like some more coffee?"

  '"Yes, thenk yer," he said--"about two quarts."

  'I nearly filled the pint pot, and he drank it and stood on his headas long as he could, and when he got right end up he said, "Thenk yer,mum--it's a fine day," and then he walked off. He had two saddle-strapsin his hands.'

  'Why, what did he stand on his head for?' asked Mary.

  'To wash it up and down, I suppose, to get twice as much taste of thecoffee. He had no hat. I sent Tommy across to Wall's to tell them thatthere was a man wanderin' about the Bush in the horrors of drink, andto get some one to ride for the police. But they was too late, for hehanged himself that night.'

  'O Lord!' cried Mary.

  'Yes, right close to here, jist down the creek where the track to Wall'sbranches off. Tommy found him while he was out after the cows. Hangin'to the branch of a tree with the two saddle-straps.'

  Mary stared at her, speechless.

  'Tommy came home yellin' with fright. I sent him over to Wall's at once.After breakfast, the minute my eyes was off them, the children slippedaway and went down there. They came back screamin' at the tops of theirvoices. I did give it to them. I reckon they won't want ter see a deadbody again in a hurry. Every time I'd mention it they'd huddle together,or ketch hold of me skirts and howl.

  '"Yer'll go agen when I tell yer not to," I'd say.

  '"Oh no, mother," they'd howl.

  '"Yer wanted ter see a man hangin'," I said.

  '"Oh, don't, mother! Don't talk about it."

  '"Yer would
n't be satisfied till yer see it," I'd say; "yer had to seeit or burst. Yer satisfied now, ain't yer?"

  '"Oh, don't, mother!"

  '"Yer run all the way there, I s'pose?"

  '"Don't, mother!"

  '"But yer run faster back, didn't yer?"

  '"Oh, don't, mother."

  'But,' said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, 'I'd been down to see it myselfbefore they was up.'

  'And ain't you afraid to live alone here, after all these horriblethings?' asked Mary.

  'Well, no; I don't mind. I seem to have got past carin' for anythinknow. I felt it a little when Tommy went away--the first time I feltanythink for years. But I'm over that now.'

  'Haven't you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?'

  'Oh yes. There's me married sister near Cobborah, and a married brothernear Dubbo; he's got a station. They wanted to take me an' the childrenbetween them, or take some of the younger children. But I couldn't bringmy mind to break up the home. I want to keep the children together asmuch as possible. There's enough of them gone, God knows. But it's acomfort to know that there's some one to see to them if anythink happensto me.'

  *****

  One day--I was on my way home with the team that day--Annie Spicer camerunning up the creek in terrible trouble.

  'Oh, Mrs Wilson! something terribl's happened at home! A trooper'(mounted policeman--they called them 'mounted troopers' out there), 'atrooper's come and took Billy!' Billy was the eldest son at home.

  'What?'

  'It's true, Mrs Wilson.'

  'What for? What did the policeman say?'

  'He--he--he said, "I--I'm very sorry, Mrs Spicer; but--I--I wantWilliam."'

  It turned out that William was wanted on account of a horse missed fromWall's station and sold down-country.

  'An' mother took on awful,' sobbed Annie; 'an' now she'll only sitstock-still an' stare in front of her, and won't take no notice of anyof us. Oh! it's awful, Mrs Wilson. The policeman said he'd tell AuntEmma' (Mrs Spicer's sister at Cobborah), 'and send her out. But I had tocome to you, an' I've run all the way.'

  James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary down.

  Mary told me all about it when I came home.

  'I found her just as Annie said; but she broke down and cried in myarms. Oh, Joe! it was awful! She didn't cry like a woman. I heard a manat Haviland cry at his brother's funeral, and it was just like that. Shecame round a bit after a while. Her sister's with her now.... Oh, Joe!you must take me away from the Bush.'

  Later on Mary said--

  'How the oaks are sighing to-night, Joe!'

  *****

  Next morning I rode across to Wall's station and tackled the old man;but he was a hard man, and wouldn't listen to me--in fact, he orderedme off the station. I was a selector, and that was enough for him. Butyoung Billy Wall rode after me.

  'Look here, Joe!' he said, 'it's a blanky shame. All for the sake of ahorse! And as if that poor devil of a woman hasn't got enough to put upwith already! I wouldn't do it for twenty horses. I'LL tackle the boss,and if he won't listen to me, I'll walk off the run for the last time,if I have to carry my swag.'

  Billy Wall managed it. The charge was withdrawn, and we got young BillySpicer off up-country.

  But poor Mrs Spicer was never the same after that. She seldom came up toour place unless Mary dragged her, so to speak; and then she would talkof nothing but her last trouble, till her visits were painful to lookforward to.

  'If it only could have been kep' quiet--for the sake of the otherchildren; they are all I think of now. I tried to bring 'em all updecent, but I s'pose it was my fault, somehow. It's the disgrace that'skillin' me--I can't bear it.'

  I was at home one Sunday with Mary and a jolly Bush-girl named MaggieCharlsworth, who rode over sometimes from Wall's station (I must tellyou about her some other time; James was 'shook after her'), and we gottalkin' about Mrs Spicer. Maggie was very warm about old Wall.

  'I expected Mrs Spicer up to-day,' said Mary. 'She seems better lately.'

  'Why!' cried Maggie Charlsworth, 'if that ain't Annie coming running upalong the creek. Something's the matter!'

  We all jumped up and ran out.

  'What is it, Annie?' cried Mary.

  'Oh, Mrs Wilson! Mother's asleep, and we can't wake her!'

  'What?'

  'It's--it's the truth, Mrs Wilson.'

  'How long has she been asleep?'

  'Since lars' night.'

  'My God!' cried Mary, 'SINCE LAST NIGHT?'

  'No, Mrs Wilson, not all the time; she woke wonst, about daylight thismornin'. She called me and said she didn't feel well, and I'd have tomanage the milkin'.'

  'Was that all she said?'

  'No. She said not to go for you; and she said to feed the pigs andcalves; and she said to be sure and water them geraniums.'

  Mary wanted to go, but I wouldn't let her. James and I saddled ourhorses and rode down the creek.

  *****

  Mrs Spicer looked very little different from what she did when I lastsaw her alive. It was some time before we could believe that she wasdead. But she was 'past carin'' right enough.

  A Double Buggy at Lahey's Creek.